


First Christmas Away From Home

by Verlaine



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys face their first Christmas following family tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Christmas Away From Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Me and Thee Secret Santa exchange, for Kat

_This day a year ago, he was rolling in the snow  
With a younger brother in his father's yard  
Christmas break, a time for touching home,  
The heart of all he'd known  
And leaving was so hard_

 _Three thousand miles away,  
Now he's working Christmas Day  
Making double time for the minding of the store  
Well he always said, he'd make it on his own  
He's spending Christmas Eve alone  
First Christmas away from home_

 

The curly-haired boy shot through the rickety gate into the back yard, just managing to stop himself from skidding and falling flat as his sneakers hit the damp grass of the lawn. Pin-wheeling his arms frantically, he caught his balance barely in time to grab the gate before it hit the fence. He threw his full weight against it and rammed the bolt home with fumbling fingers just as something heavy slammed into the wood.

"Fucking kike!"

Dave Starsky snarled under his breath at the words, but bit his lip and stayed quiet, waiting.

The gate rattled under a couple of vicious kicks. There was a moment of silence, broken only by heavy breathing, then some more muttered curses. Dave dug his heels into the grass and braced his shoulders, feeling splinters bite into his back as the gate shuddered but held firm against a violent shove. He didn't think they'd really dare to break down the fence—with his uncle living next door to a cop, there were some things even the stupidest of the jerks chasing him wouldn't try. Much as he didn't want to feel any gratitude to the grown-ups around him, he had to admit to a deep relief at not getting the bejesus beaten out of him tonight.

Everything went quiet. In the stillness, Dave could hear cars passing on the road, just a few feet past the end of the alley. The television was on next door, and he could hear faint laughter and high-pitched female voices.

 _I'm missing I Love Lucy,_ he thought with a sudden pang, and had to clamp his teeth together to keep from laughing out loud at his own stupidity.

 _I'm missing getting my head kicked in._

"Keep running, jewboy," a whispered hiss from the other side of the gate made him jolt sharply. "Can't run all the time."

Low ugly laughter receded down the alley, leaving the night quiet once again.

Dave let out a long deep breath and sank down on his heels against the fence, trying to catch his breath. That had been a close one. He was still learning the ins and outs of Bay City, which streets to stay away from, which people to steer clear of. Lucky for him he was quick enough to get away most of the time if he read things wrong. He'd only been in two really bad fights, fights where he couldn't hide the damage when he got home.

No. This place wasn't home. He looked across the yard at the little one and half story ranch, his eyes growing hard. Home was the brownstone apartment back in New York, with Mama and Nicky, and the deli on the corner and the pool room two blocks over and the synagogue and the fire hall—

He stopped, clenching his fists in a furious effort not to give in to tears. It was only for a little while, Mama had said. Until Uncle Joe stopped being mad about Davey fighting with him all the time.

Dave pounded his fist against the fence, picturing Joe Durniak's face in his mind.

He knew what Mama had really meant. Until Davey said he was sorry and promised to be good.

"No way," he whispered. "No damn way."

He felt himself flush at the profanity, but shoved the guilty feelings down hard. He didn't have anything to feel guilty about.

"No damn way," he repeated, just to push the guilt even further away.

He made his way quietly up the path through the yard, avoiding the garden beds and the rusty swing set in the faint light from the kitchen window. He could smell hamburger and onions frying, and knew Aunt Rose had only just started dinner.

He grimaced. She didn't make many of the things he was used to, and even when she did, nothing really tasted like home. She used Velveeta to make macaroni and cheese, and put too many onions in the swiss steak, and served some kind of Jell-o fruit salad at nearly every meal. And because Uncle Al worked late at the car lot most nights, supper was never on the table anyway until nearly eight.

It felt weird being hungry for stuff he didn't like.

Dave paused under the open window, fingers going to his split lip. He'd only taken one punch to the face—the rest of his body ached like he'd been hit by a train, but he could cover those bruises up with clothes—so maybe he could get away without saying anything. If Aunt Rose was distracted enough by the TV and whatever she was ruining on the stove, he might be able to sneak right past her up to his room. A cold wash rag on his face overnight, and he'd be able to say he tripped or took an elbow to the face playing basketball, and they'd never know the difference.

He was sliding under the window, getting ready to ease open the back door and check out his chances, when Uncle Al's voice suddenly came from right above him.

"Anything in the mail?"

Dave froze, silently cursing his luck. Aunt Rose might be distractible, but Uncle Al never missed a thing. One of the reasons Dave didn't like him much was because he seemed to be watching all the time, like he thought Dave was thinking of doing something bad and was just waiting to catch him at it.

 _I'm not gonna tell them. I'm_ not.

Uncle Al and Aunt Rose might be family, but they weren't Mama and Pop. His breath hitched, and he shoved his fingers harder against his mouth despite the pain.

"A letter from Anna." Aunt Rose's voice was slow, reluctant. Dave heard the clink of utensils, and spitting fat from the stove. He could picture her, back stiffly turned to the kitchen, stabbing at the fry pan with a spatula. She did that a lot when she didn't want to talk.

"Well, what does she have to say, woman?" Uncle Al grumbled.

For a long moment, Aunt Rose didn't answer, just kept scraping and banging at the pan. Dave strained his ears to hear over the noise. When she finally spoke, her voice was even slower, as if somehow that would keep the news from getting out.

"She wants us to keep Davey."

"Keep him how long? It's Christmas already. The boy needs to go home, get back to his regular schooling."

"Al, she doesn't want him to go home. At all."

Dave felt a pain in his chest so sharp that for a second he looked down, sure something had hit him. Mama didn't want him back?

"She's gotta be kidding. A child belongs with his mother. And Anna needs David to be the man of the house now that Mike's gone."

Aunt Rose sighed. Her voice got closer to the window, and Dave heard the faucet running. "She's already got a man in the house, Al, that's the whole trouble. I can read between the lines. That Durniak creep was hanging around day and night even when I was there for the funeral. 'Anna needs her rest, Rose.' 'I'll handle the arrangements, Rose.' Don't make a fuss, Rose.' Pah!"

Dave jerked at the noise; it sounded almost as if his aunt had spit into the sink, like old Verner used to do with his chewing tobacco.

"Mike's not gone a year!"

Uncle Al sounded angry, and for the first time Dave felt a bit of friendliness for him. What would he say if he knew Joe Durniak had moved in as soon as Aunt Rose had left? That he'd been hanging around just as much even while Pop was alive? No matter which shift Pop was working, it always seemed like Durniak could find the time to spend at the Starsky apartment.

"What's your sister thinking? The family must be turning purple."

Dave felt his fists clench again. It wasn't Mama's fault. It was all Durniak's fault, hanging around all the time, always with the cash to buy stuff, and presents for Nicky that he was too young to say no to.

Aunt Rose laughed, a harsh brittle sound. "Anna thinking? I never got to know Mike well, but I thought he was a good man, solid, dependable. I remember hoping Anna wouldn't marry him, because I knew what would happen. You don't know what it was like growing up with her. She likes shiny, pretty things. A new hatpin, a new pair of shoes, a new boyfriend. It didn't matter if she had a dozen hatpins, or brand new shoes or the nicest boyfriend in the neighborhood. If she saw something she liked, she wanted it. And if it belonged to somebody else, well, that was just too bad.

"If she's already seeing this Durniak, she won't let Davey's loyalty to his father get in her way."

There was a long silence, and then Uncle Al said in a funny cold voice, "Do you think Anna had something to do with—"

"No! No, Al, that's not true. Anna couldn't do something like that. If she had, she'd be in jail already. She doesn't plan, doesn't think ahead."

"I'll bet that Durniak does. I bet he plans plenty," Uncle Al growled.

"No," Aunt Rose repeated firmly. "Mike was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a robbery gone wrong." Her voice wobbled a little. "My sister is a flighty fool, but she's not—not _bad_."

"Your family, Rose," Uncle Al muttered. "Helen Trent's got nothing on it." Dave heard the sound of a lighter snapping, and the soft huff sound his uncle always made when he took his first drag on a cigar. "What does she say about Nicky?"

"Nothing. I wouldn't expect her to; he's too young to leave home."

"So." Uncle Al drew the word out. "Stuck with Davey." Dave heard the scraping of the chair against the kitchen floor, and the sound of his uncle's footsteps crossing to the back door. "Well, it could be worse. Kid likes cars. Write Anna. Tell her he can stay as long as she wants. Davey's got a temper, and he's a tough little bastard. Better he's here than with that nogoodnik Durniak, where he could really get in trouble."

"Whatever you say, Al." Davey heard a soft laugh. "It'll be nice having a child in the house, after all these years."

Uncle Al laughed too, and Dave heard the smack and squeak that he already knew meant Aunt Rose had gotten a swat on the behind and a kiss on the side of her neck.

"Get dinner on, woman. I'm going out for my smoke."

By the time Dave realized what that meant, Uncle Al was already out on the back stairs. Dave could see the tip of the cigar glowing bright red, smell the heavy acrid scent, so unlike the light, sharp Marlboroughs Pop had—

He cut the thought off hard.

It was too late to run, and there was nowhere to hide. All Dave could do was stand dead still, and hope Uncle Al couldn't see him in the gloom, and he'd finish his smoke and go back in.

"How much did you hear, boy?" Uncle Al didn't even look in his direction as he lowered himself to sit on the top step.

"All of it, sir." Dave slowly came forward, until he was standing just outside of the square of light thrown down by the kitchen window.

"You know what good judgment is?" Uncle Al took a deep puff on his stogy and blew a smoke ring.

"I think so," Dave answered cautiously. "It's about figuring out what to do, and why. Not just right from wrong, but what's smart, too."

"Close enough." Another smoke ring. "Well, your Ma doesn't have it." As Dave opened his mouth to protest, Uncle Al held up his hand. "A lot of women don't, when it comes to men." He chuckled. "A lot of men don't when it comes to women, so I guess we're all even."

"I don't understand."

Uncle Al looked at him, and Dave was suddenly sure that even through the darkness he could see everything. See how confused and angry Dave was. How much he missed Nicky, and how scared he was for him, all alone with Durniak and the guys who hung around with him. How much he hated Durniak. Even how much he sometimes hated his mother, and how bad that made him feel.

Suddenly he hated Uncle Al, too.

"I don't want to stay here! I hate this place! I hate everything!" He kicked savagely at the swing set, and then grabbed at one of the support poles and shook it until the joints creaked and the swing chains rattled.

Uncle Al didn't get up or try to hit him, or even yell. He just leaned back and puffed on his cigar, while Dave gripped the cold metal pole so hard his wrists ached, and tried to catch his breath and stop the tears from leaking down his face. He could feel blood dripping from where his lip had split open again.

"Al?" Aunt Rose opened the back door. "Al, is everything okay?"

"It's all right. Me and the boy are having a man to man talk here. You go finish up dinner."

Aunt Rose paused, the door half-open, peering out at them both.

"Al, Davey's bleeding," she said, a shrill edge on her voice.

"I said I'll take care of it, woman. Go on, get inside." Uncle Al didn't raise his voice, but there was a snap of command in it, and Aunt Rose let the screen door fall shut before he'd finished speaking.

"Here." Dave looked up to see his uncle holding out a handkerchief. He grabbed it, relieved when Uncle Al didn't take the chance to grab _him_ , and wiped the blood and snot off his face.

"You're angry, boy, and I expect you've got a right to be." Uncle Al had gone back to puffing on the cigar as if nothing had happened. "Your Pop's dead, and your Ma's sent you away, and you're stuck with people you've never seen before, in a place you don't know. That about cover it?"

"And my Mama . . . my Ma's boyfriend maybe killed him." Dave forced the words out.

Uncle Al sat up straight so quickly Dave jumped back a little. "You don't know that, boy. And you don't ever say that in front of anybody but me. Got that?"

Dave nodded.

Uncle Al leaned forward, his eyes shadowed and hard in the dim light. "What I say now is between us men, you got that? Your aunt don't know, and we're gonna keep it that way."

Dave nodded again.

"You've seen the guy next door, John Blaine? Well, Johnny's a cop. Good kid. He'll go far in the department. When your aunt came back from New York and told me about this Durniak yahoo, I talked to a few people I know. Everybody says the same thing, he's bad news. So I asked Johnny to do some digging too."

"About Pop getting killed? But the cops back home said it was a robbery," Dave protested. "They couldn't do nothing."

"Well, there's cops and there's cops, boy. Some spend so much time thinking like the bad guys, they end up closer to the bad guys than their own kind. They kinda forget which side of the line they're on. Johnny's the other kind, the kind who always knows where he stands. If there's something fishy going on back there, he'll find out."

"And put Durniak in jail?" Dave demanded fiercely. "In Sing Sing?"

"We'll see." Uncle Al took a last puff and crushed out the cigar. "There may be nothing there to find, remember. Just 'cause you don't like Durniak doesn't mean he's done something wrong."

"I'll bet he has," Dave muttered.

"We'll see. But you keep this under your hat, you hear? No point in upsetting your aunt."

"Okay."

Dave looked across the yard at John Blaine's house. It looked ordinary, plain brick and gray siding with a neatly trimmed hedge at the side of the yard, no different than any other house along the street. The idea that the man who lived in that run-of-the-mill house might be able to change things, make it possible for him to go home to his mother and brother, seemed almost too fantastic to believe.

"Uncle Al?" he asked uncertainly. "When I grow up, you think I could be a cop?"

"Well, boy, I'd say you maybe wanna talk to Johnny a time or two before you make up your mind on that. It's not like what they show on Dragnet. The bad guys don't always go to jail, and the work can be hard enough to break your heart." Uncle Al looked down at him, and shook his head. "Ah, you're too young yet, boy. Too young for all this."

He took hold of Dave's arm and pulled him out of the shadows. One big hand gently tilted his chin to turn his bruised face up to the light. "Gonna have one hell of a fat lip there. We'll tell your aunt it happened in a basketball game, got that?"

"Yes, sir."

Uncle Al slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Know what to get you for Christmas now, anyway. Come New Year, I'll take you down to Vinny's and sign you up for some boxing lessons. No need to let anybody kick your ass. And don't tell your aunt I said that."

"Yes, sir."

"Come on then. Let's go see what your aunt burned for dinner tonight."

As he followed Uncle Al into the kitchen and washed his hands, Dave let himself think about the future for the first time since he'd left home. He pictured himself in a uniform, all dark blue and polished brass, nightstick at his side, going back home and taking Mama and Nicky away with him, while Joe Durniak had to just stand and watch. Or maybe in a suit and tie, like Joe Friday, chasing Durniak along the street, slamming him against the wall and putting the handcuffs on really tight.

Dave felt himself smile a bit for the first time in what felt like forever.

 

S&H/S&H/S&H/S&H

 

 _She's standing by the train station,  
Pan-handling for change  
Four more dollars buys a decent meal and a room  
Looks like the Sally Ann place after all,  
In a crowded sleeping hall  
That echoes like a tomb_

 _But it's warm and clean and free,  
And there are worse places to be  
At least it means no beating from her Dad  
And if she cries because it's Christmas Day  
She hopes that it won't show  
First Christmas away from home_

The blond boy crept down the hall, and paused by the half-open pocket doors that separated the hall from the living room. No, the sitting room, Mrs. Mitchell called it. The living room was bigger, at the other side of the house, looking out onto the back yard and the pasture beyond. The Mitchells didn't use the living room much, except when they had company. He and Jack would sneak in there sometimes to look at the fancy glass Mrs. Mitchell collected, or the German pistols Mr. Mitchell had brought back from the war.

Ken didn't feel like doing that today, though. Jack was out in the barn helping the hired man with the horses, but he'd only shaken his head when Jack asked if he wanted to come along. Just thinking about the horses reminded him of going out to the barn with Grandpa, and that made his throat get all tight and his eyes prickle. Jack wouldn't have laughed if he'd started crying while he was shoveling manure or spreading out hay, but the hired man might.

Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell were talking. Ken knew he wasn't supposed to listen—eavesdropping, the word was, and it wasn't polite—but he had to know what they were saying. It might be something about Mom or Grandpa, something they wouldn't say in front of him. He scrubbed fiercely at his eyes with the heel of his hand, as if that would force the tears back up and out of sight.

Funny how people always told you to act your age, to be a man, but when something happened so you needed to have them treat you like a grown-up, everybody pretended you were six again.

Moving gingerly because of the ache in his rear end, he pressed up closer to the doors so he could hear everything.

"I'm just saying I think we should ask." That was Mrs. Mitchell. Kenny thought she sounded a bit like Scarlett O'Hara from Gone with the Wind, sort of lazy and distracted on the surface, but sharp underneath. He'd noticed that Mrs. Mitchell got her own way a lot, more than his mom ever did, that was for sure.

"I'm not sure it's the right time, hon. The whole family's upset. They need to be together." Mr. Mitchell talked a lot like Ken's dad, short sentences, straight to the point.

"I know everyone's upset. Which is exactly why I think the children should come here. Tom, Lord love him, is likely to end up doing more harm than good if he gets too impatient with the children. You know how he can be."

"Tom would never hurt those kids. He's a good man, Mary. I'd trust him with my last dollar, with my life—hell, hon, I'd trust him with our kids' lives!"

"I'm not arguing, Jim. Tom's a good man. But—" She broke off, and Ken could almost see her quick shrug and head-bob, like a puzzled bird. "When Tom left the army, the army didn't leave him. It's two days before Christmas. Those children have lost their grandfather, and their mother is in the hospital. The last thing they need is to be told to suck in their guts and get shoveling, soldier."

Mr. Mitchell laughed softly. "So what do you suggest?"

"We'll keep them here until Ellen's sister comes up from Arizona. It's only a few days. We've got a turkey the size of a heifer, and I can run to town buy anything extra I need tomorrow. We'll get Tom to bring their presents over on his way back from the hospital."

"You've got it all planned already, don't you?" Mr. Mitchell said. "I might as well give in gracefully."

"It's all for the best, you'll see. Tom will be able to go to the hospital and spend time with Ellen, and look after poor Jacob's affairs in peace. Kenny and Janet will be out from under his feet, and we can try to give them a nice Christmas. Take their minds off their grandfather."

Ken drew back, and scrubbed his eyes again. He didn't want his mind taken off his grandfather. It sometimes seemed that the older he got, the less anybody except Grandpa really understood him. And now Grandpa was gone.

He knew all about dying. Grandpa had taken him around the farm when he was little and explained how animals got born and then grew up, and eventually got old and died. How there wouldn't be hamburgers and pork chops and fried chicken if all the animals lived forever. Grandpa always said it didn't hurt, that it was just like going to sleep for a long, long time.

But he'd never thought about it happening to Grandpa. Never thought of Grandpa as old. Sure, his hair was white like the picture of Santa Claus on the Coke bottles, and he had wrinkles on his face, but he was still big and strong. Just this summer he'd unloaded the whole fertilizer trailer by himself, even though Dad had told him to hire somebody to do the work.

A heart attack.

Ken put his hand on his chest and moved it around, until he could feel where his heart was beating, slow and steady, just like always. His dad had explained that Grandpa's heart had stopped, because he was old and his heart was tired. He'd said Grandpa had just gone to sleep and didn't wake up.

Ken walked quietly back down the hall and into the kitchen. It was the cook's day off, and the room was empty and cool without Mrs. Brady's bustling energy to fill it. Mr. Mitchell would take them to the Golden Dragon for supper later. Mrs. Mitchell always said cooking was for people who didn't have anything better to do, so on days the cook wasn't there, they only had cereal or toast with peanut butter or sandwiches or went to a restaurant. Dad said it was foolish and wasteful, and Mr. Mitchell should make his wife learn to use a stove like any normal woman. Ken didn't mind; he liked being allowed to make sandwiches with Jack out of anything they could find in the fridge, and being able to have potato chips and Coca-Cola any time they wanted.

He sometimes wondered if Dad would let him stay over so often if he knew Mrs. Mitchell let him have tuna and ketchup sandwiches for supper. If his Dad asked, he always said Mrs. Mitchell gave them soup.

Even though he wasn't really hungry, he opened the fridge door. There was a big turkey on the bottom shelf, and pies and covered casserole dishes stacked on the other shelves. The cook would do all the work the day before Christmas, so Mrs. Mitchell would just have to heat everything up.

Suddenly, Ken felt sick. Mom wouldn't be cooking a ham this year, and Grandpa wouldn't be singing Swedish carols in that deep husky voice of his. There wouldn't be any presents, no matter what Mrs. Mitchell said.

Carefully, Ken closed the fridge door and went to the little round table in the breakfast nook. It still hurt to sit down, so he pulled his knees carefully up onto the seat and balanced himself on his elbows on the table. He hoped his rear end would feel better by tonight, because he knew Mrs. Mitchell wouldn't let him sit like that in a restaurant.

Still, he figured he'd deserved it. Dad said he'd made Mom cry because he wouldn't stop asking about Grandpa, and that meant he got a smacking. The only good thing was that Dad had been so mad at him, he hadn't even seen Janet cry, so she didn't get any smacks.

Ken sighed and traced the lines in the tabletop, his fingers following the black pattern aimlessly around. Grandpa had never smacked him, even when he did stuff he wasn't supposed to, like climb on the big tractor all by himself.

The back door of the kitchen slammed open and Jack came running in, blond crew-cut all messed up, his boots half undone and flapping. Jack never took his shoes off when he came in the house, or opened the door quietly. That was something else Ken's dad thought Mr. Mitchell was foolish about.

"Hey, Hutch, c'mon, you gotta see, there's new baby kittens, Mama Tabby just had babies, and Mr. Lee let me hold one, come on!" Jack didn't even stop to take a breath before he grabbed Ken by the arm and almost yanked him off the chair.

"Ow!" Ken couldn't stop the yelp of pain as he flailed around, trying not to fall or bump his rear end against the table.

"Your butt still sore?" Jack said apologetically, trying to help him untangle himself from the chair and only getting in the way even more.

"You said a bad word." Ken unfolded himself stiffly and stood up, taking a couple of careful steps.

"Butt, butt, butt, butt." Jack laughed and scampered out of reach. "Butt, butt. C'mon, lazy butt. Mrs. Tabby has kittens!"

"I don't wanna." Ken leaned against the table. "Just leave me alone."

"Aw, Hutch." Jack sobered, and came over to pat his arm. "I'm sorry. You hurting really bad?"

Ken shrugged. "I miss Grandpa," he said quietly. "And I'm scared. Mom's in hospital. What if something happens to her?" He hadn't admitted that to anybody. He didn't want to get his dad any more upset by making him worry about Mom too, and Mrs. Mitchell acted like his mom had just gone out to do some shopping instead of staying in the hospital for days.

Jack shook his head quickly. "Your mom's okay. I heard Dad say she just needs rest and to get her blood all strong again."

"But what if she doesn't? What if she gets a heart attack too? I don't want her—" Ken stopped, his throat choking. He felt tears try to build in his eyes, and rubbed them angrily.

Jack looked stumped for a moment, then suddenly brightened. "But your mom isn't old. My dad said your grandpa had already lived longer than he thought he would."

Ken felt a helpless misery well up inside him. "I wish I knew how to help her get better."

"I know what we can do." Jack's grin came back in force. "We'll be doctors."

"Doctors?" Ken said doubtfully. "Like your dad?"

"Uh-huh." Jack nodded vigorously. "We'll go to school and learn to be doctors, and then we'll learn how to stop people getting heart attacks, and fix them up good as new."

"You really think we can?" Ken said. Much as he wanted to believe it, he remembered Grandpa telling him about dying being part of life. "I think old people like Grandpa are supposed to die."

"Well, maybe not stop it, but we can make people better so they live a real long time. I bet we can make them live a hundred years!"

"But won't we have to go to school for years and years?" Ken winced at the idea. He didn't really mind school that much, but he hated test time. Grandpa had always talked with him about his grades, and what he liked to study and why, but his Dad just looked at his report card and asked why he hadn't done better. "I don't want my dad—"

He stopped. He couldn't tell Jack he was afraid to have his dad look at his report card.

"Sure." Jack nodded, his grin getting even bigger. "But when you learn to be a doctor, you have to go to a special school. We can go away some place. Some place a long way off."

"Away where?"

Jack looked puzzled for a minute. "Well, my dad went to Chicago. But I bet we could go anywhere! Maybe even California. Then we could go see where they make movies and everything on the days we weren't going to school."

California.

Ken remembered geography class, and memorizing where all the states were on the map. California was a long way away. All the way to the other side of the USA.

Maybe even far enough away that his dad wouldn't be able to get away from work to look at his report cards?

A little jump of hope started up in his chest.

"California sounds good," Ken said softly. Then he shook his head. "But it takes money to get there. It takes lots of money for a plane ticket. And we'd have to eat, and who would we stay with?"

Jack's face fell, and Ken felt bad. Jack never had to worry about money, but Ken was pretty sure even Jack's allowance wouldn't get them to California.

"School ships!" Jack suddenly whooped.

"What kind of ships?" His Grandpa had taken Ken down to visit the docks in Duluth a few times, but he'd never heard the old man talk about school ships.

"Well, it's some kind of ship," Jack said impatiently. "My dad said he got one because he was real smart in school, and they paid for him to be a doctor."

"Oh, _scholarship_ ," Ken said.

"Yeah, that's it. We'll get school paid for, and we can go anywhere we want. And your Dad can't stop us."

Ken felt that jump of hope in his chest again. Maybe . . . just maybe it could work? He looked at his best friend, standing there, waiting for his answer, smiling with that confidence that never seemed to fail him. Just looking at Jack made the hope feel stronger, lighter. Like a pair of wings that could take him all the way to California.

"A hundred years?"

Jack grinned widely. "We'll do it. Partners, huh, Hutch? Just like Dr. Kildare and Dr. Gillespie."

"Partners," Ken said firmly. A hundred years seemed like a good long time. But . . . "Maybe a hundred and forty. Just to be sure."

 

The End.

Song Lyrics are taken from First Christmas Away from Home, copyright Stan Rogers, 1972.


End file.
